


World Coming Down

by PaxVobis



Series: Long Play [1]
Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Anal Sex, Asexual Charles, Bad Dirty Talk, Begging, Biting, Choking, Come Shot, Documentaries, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Episode: s04e12 Church of the Black Klok, Explicit Sexual Content, Fight Sex, Gore Fantasies, Hate Sex, Invasion of Privacy, Lube, M/M, Nathan/Pickles implied, No Romance, Penis Size, Porn With Plot, Power Play, Pre-Doomstar Requiem, Rough Kissing, Scratching, Shower Sex, Slow Build, Submarines, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-24
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2018-08-24 11:47:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8371120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaxVobis/pseuds/PaxVobis
Summary: Being trapped on the Dethsub again after the disastrous funeral ambush is the last thing any of them need, least of all Nathan, struggling with his black and hateful emotions.  It feels like Charles is doing this on purpose - first the lies, and now this.  Handed the opportunity to take out his rage and frustration on someone willing in one go, Nathan indulges.Explict, dub con, 18+ only please.





	

**Author's Note:**

> content warnings: gore imagery, dubious consent, homophobic and misogynist (esp promiscuity-shaming) language from a canon character, canon standard internalised homophobia, fantasised gore, fantasised animal death, and graphic sexual content. It is very long and I am sorry. 18+

Adrift in the deep ocean, the Dethsub made its sluggish progression through the depths and trenches from the sunken sanctuary of the Church of the Black Klok.  From the suffocating privacy of his bed chambers, towards the edge of the hull and kept alive with the thrum of the nuclear engines, the vast water pressure outside, Nathan could hear every voice in the ocean calling to him, every soul, disturbing his attempts to sleep away the long and lonely journey home.  They appeared in his dreams, creatures - beings - formless or overformed, incomprehensible, and their messages which lay shallow in his body, not words but impulses, the cold shocks of brain drugs and nerve shots keeping him alert, alive, and never really knowing what they meant him to do.

And it was useless, trying to ignore them.  He’d tried to drink it away, put back bottles after bottles and hard stuff too, lifted from the bar; gin, then Pickles’ mescal, then tequila.  But they just got in deeper, penetrated into the animal core of his being.  The more intoxicated he’d become, the harder it was to have real thoughts and the stronger the voices became beneath them, as shapeless and inchoate as his very emotions.  Writhing things, great arching backs that surfaced from the darkness and sank, nameless, below.  Finally, it became too much.

Nathan roused and trudged to the living quarters for distraction, finding there Skwisgaar and Pickles sprawled on beanbags, sleepless, anxious, and watching a nature documentary in the dark.  Their wide eyes glassy on the screen.  He remembered vacantly Pickles talking about finding the DVDs in the small onboard entertainment library, watching them all afternoon, one about plants sped up, one about sea life which had grabbed the drummer, sucked him in - and at that point Nathan had left to sleep, feeling… strange… unwelcome.

Once again exiled to the deep and in quarantine, the band was suffering cabin fever, desperately finding anything to satisfy themselves or just relieve their boredom, their anxiety, with Toki and Abigail gone.  Nature documentaries.  Foosball.  Feral masturbation.  It was impossible to tell so deep underwater when it was day and when it was night, save for the way the lights dimmed to keep some illusion of the passing days, seeming to blur and warp together, the space so strange, moving, like standing in a train station or a lift but, like, everything.  Nathan had begun to lose track of how long had actually passed, wondered if they weren’t being fooled by the dimming lights.  Wondered if Offdensen was deliberately delaying their return to the surface, to keep them safe or - or whatever.  To let Toki be hurt, as part of this prophecy bullshit. Who could tell what his intentions were.  He seemed to have kept a fucking vast amount of information from them lately.  That was all that Nathan had really taken away from the whole experience, all the acolytes and carvings and the blood and phenomena - their manager had lied to them.  He’d promised he never would.  What did that mean…?

He couldn’t… _think_ ….

Nathan stood behind his two bandmates, swaying gently with a tequila bottle neck gripped in his clammy fist and staring at the screen.  Lions.  Savannah, lions in the savannah.  Good… good lions.  Lions were metal.  Big teeth… and shit.  He wanted to do a song… about sabretooth lions.  About fighting sabretooth lions.  As, like, a cave… cave dude.  Yeah.  Song about killing a sabretooth lion with his bare hands.  Feeling the life drain from it, living fur turning to dead in his hands.  But these were just… just lions.  Lions… fucking.

Nathan squinted at the screen, unaware that the other two were making the exact same face at what they were watching.  A patient, elderly British man narrated the documentary: _It is not truly known why these young male lions engage in homosexual behaviour, but behaviorists suggest it may be an expression of dominance or even male bonding between the cats._

“What the fuck…” breathed Pickles, his mouth hanging slightly open as he watched the maned cat mount its fellow, but he shut it abruptly and turned to look up at Nathan.  “Ass-fucking lions, Nathan.  Ain’t nature wonderful?”

Nathan just grunted, staring blankly at the screen.  He could… understand, you know… dominance and… stuff.  He saw the way the submissive lion just welcomed it, rubbed its head against the neck and face of the lion mounting it, and it reminded him of fucking Pickles, how weird and accommodating and affectionate the guy could be, kissing his neck and shoulders or nipping his ear while he pressed him under his great mass.  But Nathan had never considered that dominating him.  They had come to each other as equals - if anything, Pickles’ charisma, the ease with which he moved through those awkward early stages, reaching the terms on which they were meeting, the changes, venturing experiments when he was mutely questioning like a mind-reader, controlled Nathan.  No amount of hard fucking could dominate Pickles, could even daunt him.  He loved that shit, sought it out.  Like this lion.  This gay… slutty… lion.

Nathan blinked, disconnected, in the dim light.  So Pickles couldn’t be dominated.  He still wanted to try.  It had been too long, with the break up and all the weirdness, since he’d had a moment alone with him; regarding him with reptile placidness now, Nathan could taste the blood on his tongue from attempting to deliver that excruciating apology.  From acknowledging all those great, formless emotions that now sunk out of his reach again, disappearing into the dark beneath his straining fingers.  It hurt his head, made it throb; made him want to destroy Pickles, take him apart again, rip out his steaming entrails in his bare hands and hear him cry and moan, feel him quiver - -

Nathan, semi-hard, bumped Pickles’ temple with his fingers to get his attention.  “Pickles,” he grunted when the drummer didn’t look up, and even then, he wouldn’t pull away.

“What, Nate?”

“C’mon.”  Now Pickles looked up at him, his eyes with a sheen of insomnia and red with intoxicants.  He took in Nathan’s face, the tequila bottle, and looked - what.  Nathan would call it.  Angry.  Maybe.  Hard to make out in the dark.

“Nate, you’re hammered,” said the drummer hoarsely, and looked back at the screen.

“C’mon.”

When Pickles didn’t respond, Nathan grabbed his arm and tried to drag him backwards, but without any force; Pickles easily pulled his arm free and glared back up at him, threatening, his face mad in the pale TV light.  Skwisgaar turned his head to regard them, still said nothing.

“Nathan, no!  Jesus.  I wanna watch the friggin doco!” complained Pickles, gesturing at the lions as they rounded up zebras in a stripy blur, and Nathan growled as his head swam at the streaks and zigzags.  Seeing him swoon, Pickles gave a soft tut under his breath but just wiggled himself deeper into his bean bag.  “It’s too soon, Nate.”

“Too soon?”  Nathan couldn’t work it out.

“After Toki.  I’m worried... about Toki, dude.  It’s got me all cut up, ya know.”  Lying through his teeth.  Nathan rumbled unhappily, but he knew a final answer when he heard it.  If he tried to push further, Pickles would become no fun and no fun Pickles was really, really no fun at all.  A spiral of hard drugs and residue on razorblades and vomit and the stinging taste of salty tears. 

“Whatever.  Fuck you.”

Nathan drifted away from the dim light of the recreation room, missing Pickles’ cast glance after him as he passed into the dark corridors of the sub, drifting like a leviathan through the depths of their living quarters with the ocean pressure pushing down on his brain.  He could feel the depthless cold squeezing his heart, the isolation as it pulled around his body, dragging his self out into the gutters and open trenches of the ocean beyond with every glance through a porthole.  Nathan, used to power and control, felt so helpless against this beckoning - fuck, it stilled his blood within him, made him slow-brained and reptilian, ichthyic, cetean.  Like time was passing at half-speed, monolithic.  Or too fast - a slice of nothing against the sheer scope of the ages, insignificant, pointless to all he could feel and comprehend.

He found himself surfacing from this placid, comatose state in another part of the submarine’s chambers, one he found unfamiliar.  His gut lay cold within him as Nathan reawoke to his surroundings, having wandered deep from the band’s chambers and into the staff quarters, beyond, even, into the front of the hull.  Here the shadowed steel corridor had come to an end in a braced door, looking like it was intended to be locked but when Nathan put his hand to the sophisticated palm-print reader experimentally, it obediently sprung open for him.  As it should do.  It was his sub, after all; locked doors made him very suspicious, especially in light of all these secrets now emerging from the depths.

The dark room beyond dragged him in with a soulless gravity, like a cold hand wound into his guts.  At first, standing in the chilled gloom beyond, he couldn’t understand why.  It just looked like sleeping quarters to him, spartan with a narrow bed like all the Klokateers had, though strange that it should be isolated and not in a dormitory like the others.  But slowly it came to him - that the far wall, black over the bed, represented not just the dark but the endless depth, a window out of the hull and into the ocean barely framed by steel betraying it for its thick inset glass.  This was the source of the temperature and the eerie light, or no light, as the bottom of the trenches tended to have; and the source of the cold hand wrapped around his organs.

Drawn by the weirdness of it, the emptiness, Nathan inspected the quarters.  The bed was made immaculately, like service staff immaculately, every personal effect out of sight, in fact so impersonal it almost creeped him out.  Because there was a luxury inherent too.  The mattress, when he sat on its edge, felt no different to his own and that suggested, unpleasantly, that whomever it belonged to was of a similar rank to himself.  A shadow like a corpse hung from a portal door on the opposite wall, next to the entrance, and it was only gazing fish-brained at it that Nathan realised it was the protective sleeve of a black suit protector, hanging like a body bag from a hook on the door.  As he took it in, so more objects swam out of the darkness, and a static sound started beyond, muffled by the sealed door; he noticed the polished shoe backs peeking from beneath the bed where they’d been secreted along with a suitcase, beneath the pillow a locked laptop bag and a book - Nathan read the faded cover, _The Servant_ , Robin Maugham, some old, worn novel, but the blurb was too dark and too dull for him to care - and then the folded glasses discarded at the foot of the bed, just left there, watching him like the two sharp eyes that should have looked past them - and he realised with a lurch that jerked him upright, alert, whose quarters he’d trespassed in.

Nathan had never been in Charles’ personal chambers before.  In fact, prior to actually being here in them he’d never even spared a thought to them, that they must be somewhere in Mordhaus, what they must resemble.  Couldn’t even think which door led to them, though it must have been one from the corridor that led off his chambers.  If he was to imagine, thinking hard now - imagination did not come easily to Nathan like intruding images did - he would have presumed books, lots of books, perhaps more artefacts like the knives in the case in his office, perhaps even guns.  And a warmth, too, like a library; being in the manager’s chambers always made him feel like he was in a library.  

But this place was cold, barely occupied.  Was Charles like this inside, empty and austere, the office a front put on to lull them into security?  Or merely not at home here, a guest in the sub as were the band?  As he tuned in to the thrum of the nuclear engines, the filled silence of the pressure on his eardrums, so Nathan deciphered the static beyond the door - water.  A shower.  He’d caught Charles not out of his room but hidden within like a cat fishing its paw into a mousehole and touching a tail, at his most vulnerable, in transition from kevlar, silk blend and leather to kevlar, silk blend and leather.  Nathan stared at the bathroom door, unable to really process this.  The very idea that there was a Charles out of suit jarred his brain, even having seen the guy intoxicated or in his dressing robe.  The idea that Charles was, could be, vulnerable.  It just didn’t compute.

Charles, vulnerable.  Charles, just beyond that door, weak and exposed and vulnerable.  Showering.  The sound hadn’t stopped, which suggested he hadn’t even noticed Nathan’s intrusion.  Like intruding into part of him, so secretive and cloistered he was with his private spaces.  Charles Foster Offdensen, vulnerable, and him, Nathan, not - fuck, that felt insane.  Charles, vulnerable to him?  Offdensen was their pillar of strength, their structure, a machine extending outside himself - in a way, Offdensen was every servant, every Klokateer, every mainframe and network and system that surrounded them.  When he attempted to dissemble that structure and place Charles, the man Charles, Charlie, within it, soft and tender at mid-life like a shell-less crab or - or like a brain, a brain out of a body, it just threw Nathan.  Like brains did not like to see themselves.  If the brain could be seen, something was deeply, deeply wrong.

Drawn up from the bed (and leaving it in disarray, Charles’ book and laptop strewn carelessly on the covers) as if on invisible fishwire Nathan moved to the bathroom door and laid his palm on the cool steel handle.  Standing close, the faucet sound was more obvious.  His heart felt heavy within him, like a pump, forcing thickened blood through his slow body.  He didn’t think about it, barely even processed the movement, opening the door surreptitiously; didn’t even think to know what he wanted from it, except to sate some animal curiosity as to that vulnerability, push its limits, lie in it and roll around in the filth and glory of its perversion.  Gut it like a deer on his father’s cleaning bench, bring out the brain to where it didn’t belong, where it hated to be.  A violence, inherent.

The bathroom was fucking bright.  Fucking Offdensen with his pristineness, his perfectness, a white crack of light harsh across Nathan’s square face as he pushed it doggishly into the room.  Full of steam, as if the manager was trying to scald off the sweat rather than just wash.  The smell of expensive herbal cleaning products.  A very small room, slate-tiled in keeping with the rest of the sub; there was a mirror, fogged, basin, a toiletries carrier bag with a few items on the counter around it like toothbrush and electric shaver plugged in at the wall.  A black towel on the back of the door, the shower belching steam and taking up the far end of the room, very large for what it was, and the pink shadow inside through the dimpled glass shower door which was, you know, him.  The soft organ, balking at being interrupted and freezing under the water stream.  Through the vague, blurred shape beyond the steam and condensation, Nathan with perverse curiosity tried to work out how big his dick was, but quickly realised Charles was facing away from him.  Had instinctively drawn his arms in front of him protectively.  It was as if, to Nathan, he could hear him breathing.

“Nathan.”  His voice had a resonance in the small space, sounding too loud.  Even without facing Nathan, Charles could tell who it was; but in the shadowed glass Nathan could see the dark blots of his eyes cast over his shoulder at him.  There was something thrilling in the concern his voice held, and Nathan said nothing, just moved into the bathroom and shut the door behind him, his keen eyes still up and down the bizarre naked form before him.

“Is something wrong?” tried Charles, though he knew already that the only wrong was in this room with him, right now.  Since his death he’d had a preternatural sense for that, for the welfare of the boys.  And the rest were okay beyond the sickening, panicked beacon of Toki, rapidly fading in his consciousness.  Hard to hold on to.  Right now, Nathan’s powerful presence smothered that dwindling light.

The hulking singer placed his empty tequila bottle on the countertop with a hollow sound, swaying in the heat.  Offdensen turned off the shower, as if he hadn’t been able to hear Nathan (mute, as always) over it, stayed facing away.  “Ah, hand me that towel, Nathan?  And I’ll, ah.  We’ll talk about... it.  Whatever it is.”

Not that he had any idea what _it_ might be, but nor did Nathan, an empty hole in his head, his thoughts eclipsed by formless feelings.  He looked at the towel, then at Offdensen’s shape in the shower, the steam still rolling off him as the faucet dripped loud in the tiny room.  Something, a feeling, a desire, began to blossom inside Nathan as he gazed; a feeling like he was too hot, and too large, and too powerful, like he wanted to tear his skin off to free himself from its tightness.

“Nathan?” repeated Charles, uneasy, and he looked up over his shoulder as the shower door slid aside, admitting Nathan’s brute head in all its idiot glory.  He quickly covered himself, standing against the tiled wall, and tried again: “Nathan.”

This time the singer grunted.  He could smell Charles’ clean skin, freaked him out.  In such close quarters he could see Charles relax at his acknowledgement, and he was so small and compact beside Nathan – not quite as small as Pickles, but small.  Parallel feelings rising inside him as he thought it, even as Charles darted out his hand and tried to push the shower door closed on his head.  “If you would, ah, kindly – _kindly_ get out of my shower.  Nathan.”

Nathan jammed a hammy fist in the door’s opening, wrenching it against Offdensen’s pull before it closed on his neck.  “Charles,” he managed to grunt, but any other word or thought died in his gullet before it even reached his tongue.

Charles was straining on the door and almost winning, slowly eeking it closed with his arm muscles standing out with the effort.  “God damn it, Nathan,” he hissed through his teeth, fighting to cover himself as well as brace one-handed on the door, “If there’s something you want just spit it out.  This is, ah, extremely intrusive and - - are you listening to me?”

Nathan was not, really.  His base brain was taken in by Charles, the weirdness and still the grace and strength of his stocky body, the bare intensity of his gaze without his glasses, the damp disarray of his hair.  It stirred something in him to see their manager humbled, even humiliated, flattening himself against the shower wall now with one hand straining on the door against Nathan and the other held over his crotch, his pale skin flushed from the hot water and still marked by flowering bruises and stitch lines from his encounter with the assassin.  A kind of gloating delight in seeing his nerves and confusion, huddled in a corner away from him; in Nathan’s consciousness the whole submarine loomed, a part of himself, with Charles trapped at the only dead end he couldn’t escape from.  No Klokateers here, no guns or swords or daggers, no panic buttons.  Even if he screamed they wouldn’t hear him.    Holy fucking shit.  

Nathan just stared at him.  Charles was totally powerless, like he’d wrenched open an oyster.  Offdensen’s grip gave on the shower door for only a moment but it was enough for Nathan to win another inch off him.  There would be, could be no lies here.  A surge of anger bloomed in Nathan as he threw his weight against the door again, prising it open against Charles’ grip before the manager quickly pulled his hand away.  He wanted to shake powerless, idiot Charles like a dog on a dead rabbit, demand the answers he was entitled to, but no words would come out of his mouth.  Just this mute, animal want, to destroy him, put him back in his place, to dominate him.  Instinctively, Nathan jammed his broad shoulder into the gap he’d fought for, and reached for him.

Offdensen’s shoulder was rigid and tensed under Nathan’s fingers as he closed his hand around it, taking a stumbled, drunken step into the shower cubicle with him, the tiles wet beneath his bare feet.  They shared a difficult moment of intense eye contact, Charles’ recoiling like a snake waiting to bite and struggling to calm his hysterical heartbeat and Nathan just sluggish, groping at the wet skin he’d gotten his fingers into, hadn’t expected to get this far.  When his thumb grazed Charles’ throat the man lashed out suddenly, his palm raised to strike flat and break Nathan’s nose, but his charge easily - unnaturally easily - avoided the blow with a swoon and caught Charles’ wrist, wrenching it behind him and pinning it to the shower wall.

Charles tried to collect himself, straining against Nathan’s grip.  The Church had warned him dangerous times were ahead, times when he’d find it hard to communicate and stay by the sides of the boys and he should just try to placate them and keep them safe until the time was right, but he hadn’t imagined attempted murder.  His mind, still fresh from the conflict, bolted with hysterical images of the bloody guise of the assassin right before him, his wounds pulling against their stitches with little rips of pain.  Though Charles was no stranger to trauma reactions and had spent a tough few days so far between meditation and the emergency wing within the sub attempting to fight it off, the parallel was too strong in Nathan’s huge form and sent his heart racing for action.  Christ, he didn’t want to hurt him.  It was probably just the stress getting to the guy.  Probably. Definitely.  Stress and neglect and missing Abigail and, true, true, Charles mourned after her too - and rotten blood from Cornickelson’s corpse splattered thick over his face - _damn._

There had to be a way out of this without hurting him.  As Nathan’s thumb pressed into his throat again, pushing his skull against the wall, Charles took the last gamble for harmlessness he was willing to make, sacrificing the hand he had held for modesty to grab for the taps.  He caught one, jerking in Nathan’s hands as he wrenched it on, and then falling into Nathan’s grip around his throat and wrist as his feet slipped from under him and a torrent of cold water poured over his attacker.

Nathan froze catatonic, pinning Offdensen even as the man struggled to regain his footing, his free hand wrapped around the wrist of the arm choking him and his chest heaving, twisting writhing against the locked grip as Nathan just stood there, the water soaking his clothes to him and flattening his hair against his scalp.  Charles could feel two rivulets of painfully cold water gathered on the hair of his calves and weaving their way across his skin as he folded, hanging off of Nathan’s arms helplessly.  It had been useless.  There was nothing for it.

“Nathan,” he pleaded, looking up into those cold, torpid eyes as his bare shoulders were pressed against the smooth tiles, “I’m sorry.  I - I did everything I could.  My hand was, ah - - ” - painfully aware of the black nailed fist pinning his wrist over his head - “ - - was forced, I… there was nothing I could do.”  He squirmed uselessly, fighting for his footing against the pouring water.  “I didn’t mean to let - to let you down.  Ah… I’m sorry.”  And pray to god he heard.

Nathan stood, comatose, under the showerhead, his shirt sticking dark to his muscles as he held Charles in place.  He’d heard - the words had slipped in, but the tone had wormed its way in deeper, hitting some primeval part of the singer as he regarded the man he pinned to the wall.  He found himself suddenly fascinated by Charles’ form, nude and unsteady and white in the cold water, furred, sinewy, compact, and the closeness to another body riled him further as if the water pouring over his head and shoulders didn’t even hit him.  

An idea forced its way through, like Nathan was a dangerous creature and had won a fight against this other, dangerous creature, a rival, held suspended in his grip like he could kill him if he wanted, like he could - nudging Charles’ throat with his thumb - but didn’t have to.  He’d won.  He’d forced submission.  A glorious pleasure flooding him at the thought, at the tone of Charles’ pleading.  He _was_ a creature, a beast, and he had Charles at his mercy - and now he could see that Charles, too, was just another helpless, naked animal - and his heart pounded in his ears with the isolation, and the frustration, and Pickles turning him away, and this being Charles’ fault anyway, and the weirdness of seeing Charles’ dick as the man tried to pry his hand away from his throat, the weirdness that it was half-cocked too.  Weird… fucking… homo, manager.  Getting hard over being choked by him.  Huh!  Couldn’t say he hadn’t had his suspicions, but still, you know?

But in fact, was this not an opportunity, you know?  To sate himself?  His desire to dominate, and his need to fuck.  Nathan slid his grip up Charles’ neck, pulling his jaw up unkindly in his hand to throes and struggles.  But not strong ones.  Like he’d already won.  With just a grunt, Nathan shook back his wet hair and then dropped the other man unceremoniously to slip and fall onto the shower floor at his feet.  Offdensen cowered there on the dark slate tiles, holding his head against the blistering cold water that poured down over him as he composed himself, saying a silent prayer to all his stars and prophecies that it had worked.  He lived another day.  Expected Nathan to leave him to his shame, but his attention was jerked up as Nathan shifted, taking a step to stand over him.

“What are you doing?” he spluttered, lifting his hand to shelter his eyes, and Nathan shoved his face aside in distaste.  When Charles raised his head again, the other man was looming over him, unbuckling his jeans with the water pouring over his back and chest, his hard on painfully obvious in its size and horror through the wet denim.

“I am going to fuck you,” growled Nathan, and Charles had to swallow back his own heart, the way it leapt up into his throat.

“Oh,” he squeaked, and tried to ignore the warm rod of his own erection resting hot against his bare thigh.  He was not a particularly sexually charged man, perhaps woefully the opposite, but back him up against a wall with it and his body responded like the starved animal it was.  The reality of the situation washed over him like a breaking tide: Nathan was used to getting what he wanted, and Charles had sworn to the Church that he’d serve in whatever way necessary.  It had always been his policy, so how much harder could it get, he’d god damn _naively_ thought.  Well: _pretty damn hard._

His heart threatened to stop as Nathan reached down to him, hesitating only a moment before he clasped Nathan’s hand and let him pull him to his feet.  The huge singer was idly groping at his stiff dick through his soaked Y-fronts with one hand, his other venturing over Charles’ collarbone experimentally.  The older man just hung before him, hypnotised by the intimacy of it.  He had expected this affair to be violent and sudden, but Nathan was neither of those things so close, wasn’t sure how to proceed between brutality and affection.  He was capable of great figurative butchery when he didn’t care.  But Charles was something else.

Nathan broke their suspended animation by taking Charles’ shoulders in his meaty hands and slamming him back against the shower wall, hard enough to force a bare gasp from the manager before Nathan – recoiling, sulking, ashamed at himself – silenced him with a firm, hard-lipped kiss.  Suffocated by Nathan’s sloppy mouth and only tokenistically trying to improve the kiss from his side, Charles shut his eyes and let the back of his head hit the shower wall with a light thud.  Tequila.  He tasted like tequila.  Jesus Christ.  He could feel Nathan’s thick cock pressed against his belly, a thin layer of wet cotton separating them, and it felt huge.  His hands hung by his sides paralysed as it felt forbidden to touch any of the boys like that, and Nathan pawed his sore shoulder muscles in his fists.

Gradually Nathan moved his hands down Charles’ chest, held stiff against the other man’s skin.  Even as he pushed the kiss harder, Nathan recoiled inside to feel Charles moving back against him.  Gay-ass manager, should have suspected, reaching around him now to turn on the hot water, pouring warm over Nathan’s shoulders as his heart pounded like a horse.  Just another slut, a subspecies of human; though Nathan had never really thought much about gay sluts.  An entire other world there and it turned out Charles was one of them, his slender hands coming to rest on Nathan’s hips, tentatively pulling his clinging shirt up his sides.  The light touches were spinning his head, heating his body as he crushed Charles against the shower wall, sex-starved and succumbing.  It wasn’t as though Charles could _tell_ anyone what happened here, it wasn’t as though – if you were the one doing the fucking – you were gay – so why not go under.

Nathan slipped his hand between them, breaking the kiss and resting his head heavy against Charles’ as he groped for the older man’s dick between them.  He’d moved to just give it a cruel tug, but once he closed his fist around it, hot in his palm and throbbing like it was a real, living thing, he was too stunned to execute any unkindness.  He was vaguely aware of Charles wincing at his touch, a whole body wince as his stomach tightened in reflex, and Nathan nervously rubbed his palm down the smooth shaft to Charles’ balls and eliciting a frustrated groan from the manager.  It felt so surreal, to be in control of him.  Nathan looked down at Charles, intrigued by the arch of him, the weakness of him.  But the intimacy was too much, Charles’ touches too tentative.  He was starting to get wound up.

Nathan gave a short huff and took Charles by the shoulder, wrenching it across roughly and turning him to the wall, the other man struggling not to slip and fall as Nathan almost lifted him and then shoved him against the wall, the tiles mashed against his cheek cool and smooth.  A lead weight of regret sunk through his heart – Charles had worked his entire time at Mordhaus to hide the brand on his neck from Dethklok, and now Nathan stripped that truth bare with so little effort, forced the responsibility of that oath down his throat.  He could feel Nathan moving behind him, his clothed cock pressing against his buttocks as the younger man stripped his wet shirt over his head and dropped it with a wet slap onto the shower floor, then his body lift as he drew back a little, worked his clinging jeans and underwear down his legs and then leaned back on Charles, crushing him up against the wall to a nasal groan as Charles’ erection pressed against the cold tiles. 

He could feel Nathan’s dick, hot and heavy in its nudity and girth, against the skin of his buttocks and the rake of black nails up the soft flesh, dug into the sore muscle beneath, as Nathan pawed at him and tried to work out his next move.  A bolt of panic froze Charles up against the wall and he shot a hand down to grab Nathan’s cock, making the guy pause in confusion. 

“No.  Ah, no, no.  Not, ah, without...” Charles stuttered, a nervous laughter in his voice, as he tried to turn and pointed randomly at the products in the shower.  Damn.  He hadn’t exactly prepared for this.  He tried to assess each bottle in the split second he had as Nathan tried to follow his gestures, to discard the stinging and the frothing for something, anything - - and Charles smacked his hand defiantly against the wall where he was held, “The oil!  Nathan!  Get that... get the, ah, the coconut oil - - the brown jar.  I - I use it for my hair but, ah, it'll, ah, do, just...”

Nathan furrowed his brow but did as he was told, leaning down to retrieve the jar and holding it out to Charles.  The older man just shook his head; “Just, ah, you know?  You know...” he said awkwardly, and Nathan frowned at him and opened it, giving it a sniff.  It smelt good, sweet like a dessert and vaguely a scent he associated with Charles, lingering on his body beneath the cologne and dry cleaning, and upon dipping in his fingers (thinking maybe he’d try to taste it?) he found it oily, slick on his skin.

Nathan paused as he rubbed it between his fingers, fascinated by the texture, his dick weighing heavy against the small of Offdensen’s back until he caught the manager’s sharp glare over his shoulder as he braced himself against the shower wall.  “Put it on your cock, Nathan,” he explained patiently through his clenched teeth, suppressing a huff of frustration as the realisation flashed visibly over Nathan’s face.  Fucking manager, gay-ass manager, thought he knew better about ass-fucking than Nathan, well, _good!_   Because at least Nathan wasn’t fucking gay!  He laid his forearm across Charles’ shoulders and shoved him against the shower wall again, snarling in his ear as he crudely lubed up his dick, “I’m gonna fucking obliterate your ass, Charles.”

Charles looked back at him over his shoulder, his cheek mashed against the tiled wall.  “Okay.”

He swallowed, feeling Nathan abandon the oil and turn to groping at his buttocks, positioning himself, and then spoke haltingly, rambling, though not without a certain subdued confidence, “Ah... just, take it slow, please, Nathan, ah, I’m, ah - - ”  Charles let slip a nervous laugh, a weird sound in the close quarters, reverberating within the shower cubicle.  “I’m not Pickles.  I mean, I, ah, I’m not – I mean this, it’s a far cry from the doctor’s office, if you know what I, ah, m - - ”

Nathan silenced him with a rough shove against the tiles.  “Shut up,” he growled, taking a handful of Charles’ wet hair, “You talk too much.”  Charles just made a mumbled noise of agreement, trying to channel all his zen yoga classes into finding his center, his calm, as Nathan squared against him.  You know, kensho, counting.  Kapalabhati, taking in a deep, slow breath, counting it in, and then  - -

Pressed against the wall, Nathan felt Charles twitch under him, giving a soft grunt as his slick head breached at last.  With his body holding Charles in place, his fingers in the man’s hair now more gently stroking, Nathan pushed his thick cock slowly in, luxuriating in the heat and tightness of Charles’ core and the muted convulsions of the body beneath him, around him, as Charles battled not to react to the intrusion.  Nathan laid his free hand on the manager’s hip, urging it back towards his loins as he penetrated deeper.  Charles complied, like he was easy, like he was a fucking slut.  He felt like a slut, felt the same hot and slippery and grainy as ass-fucking any groupie whore, except maybe tighter, maybe the squeeze of muscles around his dick were harder.  Was Charles a butt-virgin?  Not a thought that had crossed Nathan’s mind before.  If so, man.  He was totally taking Charles’ ass-virginity.  What the hell.  That was some fucked up shit right there.

Charles slapped his hand against the wall where he was bracing himself, red faced and swallowing back the pain and discomfort of the initial breach.  Because fuck, no amount of torture training could prepare a person for Nathan’s cock.  As he pushed further into Charles’ body, the manager turning his face to the wall to bite his lip and smother his groans without Nathan seeing, hyperfocusing on the other man’s thick fingers pushed through the short hair at the nape of his neck and the strange ripple of warmth that seemed to come from his core muscles.  It washed over him with an involuntary shiver, a deep vulnerability, and then Nathan cut it short by shoving the last couple of inches in with a short thrust and a grunt, Charles mentally scrambling to preserve his calm and keep his footing, almost on his toes from the angle Nathan raised his ass to.  God damn, he’d been going so well with the slow and gentle up til then.  And god damn, it burned and stung, felt grossly unnatural.  But whenever the brute paused within him, his fingers rolling curiously over the scars at the back of his neck, Charles succumbed to a bloated warmth fat and heavy inside him like the steam that rose around them, smothering the dread of the coming fucking that lurked in his mind.

Not for long.  He felt Nathan press his face to his neck, the drape of his long wet hair against his back, his fingers closing to a firm grip on his hip and the other on his shoulder muscle, thumb ground into the welted scar of the gear right over his spine.  His hot breath against his jaw.  “Say something,” came the growl in his ear, and Charles allowed himself to look back, squinting at Nathan.

“Like what?” he managed, almost a hiss as he tried not to pant and lose it.  His silence had made Nathan uncomfortable.  He needed something, some reassurance that this was okay, the images of Charles’ entrails flashing through his mind as he could feel them alive around his dick, the images of dragging them out of the bloody hollow of his gut, the domination unnatural as much as it was erotic.  Feel the pounding of the other man’s blood through his organs, through the vein in his throat under his fingers.

“Like, uhhh...”  Charles had lost himself in the violence of it.  Hearing Nathan hesitate, speak like himself as he battled for an articulate, creative thought, the surreality of the situation was brought home to him.  “Like say, like, ‘fuck me’, or something, just...” and the singer pulled his hips up against him to a squirm, the round of his ass pressing against his pelvis, “Something, I dunno.”

Charles gave a soft grunt of frustration.  He just wanted to get off and get out, god damn it.  “Okay.  Ah.  Fuck me, Nathan,” he said, shifting his weight awkwardly with the vast intrusion and warmth, and waves of a new sensation he was recognising uncomfortably as pleasure.  Some type of pleasure.

“Yeah,” grunted Nathan idiotically, and pulling back for a slow thrust that made Charles choke on his own tongue.  A groan slipped from him and he was horrified to hear Nathan chuckle at him, hoarse and close to his ear, his grip hard on him as the hand on his hip started roaming, venturing down the curve of his thigh as he ground sluggishly up into him.  “Again.”

“Ah, god.”  Charles moved a hand up to cover his burning face, desperate not to dissolve into blank minded panting and keep his composure.  “Fuck me, Nathan.”

“Your ass,” ordered Nathan obliquely, getting a quiet “What?” and a look over the shoulder from Charles for his trouble.  It had made perfect sense in his head, but honestly that was little more formed than a blood clot now, a swollen and hot thing possessed by the body beneath him, his nails grazing Charles’ thigh as he raked them upwards and slowly thrust like a starting engine.

“Fuck... your ass.  Say it,” he said, resting his face against Charles’ shoulder and grasping his cock again, grinning into the flesh as Charles shivered and recoiled back against his pelvis.  It was a sick pleasure to make Charles swear, to hear him sully his clever mouth with stupid words.

It struck Charles as redundant, in the process of having his ass fucked, but he said it anyway: “Ah, fuck my ass, Nathan.”  He shuddered as Nathan licked his shoulder, his tongue broad and soft and weird, and straightened up against him, steading himself before starting to fuck in earnest.  Charles scrambled to brace himself against the force, Nathan’s hand dragging from his neck down his side, and blurted, “Oh, fuck,” before biting his tongue in embarrassment as he heard Nathan’s triumphant chuckle.  That was power, that was the power of a hard dick.  To fuck even Offdensen dumb.

His hand ventured over the man’s furred stomach, feeling for the twitch of organs and the weight of his own dick as Nathan rutted into him.  Instead he found muscle, tight abdominals that he knotted his fingers into, imagining curling his black nails deep around them and ripping them open, the fall of intestines and flood of blood hot over his fingers and bright down the drain with the warm water.  Those muscles, so tight and powerful; if Charles had wanted to he could have pushed Nathan off.  But he let him.  _Fuck_ , he was letting him, he was that fucking gay, that submissive. 

Instinctively Nathan closed his mouth on Charles’ shoulder muscle, grunting as he sunk into the smaller man’s fat-tongued panting and helpless groans, the dim slap of his thighs against Charles’ ass, the pleasure of his heat and the mindless fucking.  A strong but slender hand closed over his, curled into Charles’ stomach muscles, and for a second Nathan thought the fucking homo was going to clasp his hand and hold it.  But Charles braced himself – a weird squeeze all down Nathan’s dick as he rammed hard up him again – and wrenched the hand off from where the nails had been biting into his skin.  Nathan took the hint and moved it to Charles’ side again, realising with a short suck that he was tasting blood and rolling his lips off of Charles to just rest his head heavy, intoxicated, against the nape of his neck.

The swelling of his orgasm building, he toyed with making Charles take it on the face or something fucked like that but no, fuck no, it was better to pump straight to the core.  Charles, dumb, was bracing himself with one hand and the other – Nathan had lost track of it, nuzzling his neck now as his thrusts slowed and he tried to assess the situation.  Pausing mid-thrust to a soft groan from Charles and a different rhythm by his pelvis, he realised what it was with faint surprise.  The manager was beating himself off, leaning back into him, only pushing harder when Nathan gave pause, ignoring the frustrated tangle of his halted orgasm in his head.  It felt powerful to stop it, it felt powerful to feel Offdensen squirm and spasm like a stupid animal under him as he wrapped his arms around his chest, pressing the man’s shoulders against the wall as he fought to jack off, to slowly grind into him like he would with a desperate slut and have him pant and beat in the same dumb, frantic way.

Charles felt enveloped by the embrace, the swollen muscles around his chest and the solid chin heavy on his wounded neck, but he wasn’t going to just stand here and take it without getting off himself.  He knew he was being gloated over, toyed with, the lingering and slow grind evidence enough, but the weird fullness of it pushed that engorged, blood-fat pleasure full in his head to the point of idiocy.  It felt good, stupidly good, to beat off with Nathan dwelling over him, so much that he didn’t care that the guy was smirking.  And Nathan wasn’t a reach-around kind of guy, you know – but even as he thought it, a large hand came down over his, awkwardly trying to either take over or help; it wasn’t obvious.  And it didn’t help, just got in the way of his rhythm, but the affectionate gesture of even thinking of Charles’ pleasure and the extra firmness of the squeeze were enough.

Nathan clumsily fondled Charles, his other hand clasped to the smaller man’s chest, when he felt every muscle in his chest tighten and the cock in his hand twitch, and he almost lost his balance as Charles collapsed forward against the wall a way with a groan, rolling his temple against the tiles.  After a few more triumphant, the final squirt of hot, thick liquid drooled over Nathan’s knuckles before he abruptly pulled his hand away.  He made a face as he tried to shake it off and only succeeded in splattering it on the walls and Charles, then remembered the warm water on his shoulders and held it under to wash off.

“Sorry,” eeked Charles, heaving for breath against the tiles, swimming in the glow of his ridiculously deep orgasm.  He felt brainless, doped, not even remembering what he’d interrupted until Nathan’s hands closed on his two hips and pulled them back hard onto his cock.  Oh... and he knew the hour of Nathan’s mercy had passed.  Now it was only about him.

“Say it,” came the order.  Charles squirmed against the wall, battling for the faculties to brace himself and relax his muscles.  It still felt surreal, still felt unnatural, still felt blissful being skewered on Nathan’s thick cock.

“Fuck me.”

“Again.”  Nathan’s hand came down in a hard slap against his ass, making him straighten in reflex and then bow his head against the wall where he was braced.

“Fuck me, Nathan.”

Nathan just grunted, his hand coming down heavy on Charles’ shoulder again as he complied, resuming his rut up into the other man with renewed determination.  One end in mind this time.  Jostled by the force of a particularly brutal stab, Charles braced his legs with a short grunt, looking down the shower wall at the white spill of his ejaculate smattered against the slate tiles.  He felt like he was being drilled, Nathan’s hand moving to grip his hair and holding his head down as he drove into his bowels.  It was as if he could feel the punch in his soft organs, his bladder or liver or kidneys or something; bladder, probably.  But definitely like a punch, broad-wristed and solid, his legs fighting not to quiver under the barrage.  He realised then, head held down and submissive, that if what the Church told him was true – and it certainly was – then this was what it was to be fucked by a god.  And for all the groupies who thought it, he was the only human who knew, who had ever known that.  There was something greedy and precious about that thought that made him arch his hips back against Nathan’s assault, something he wanted to keep secret.  As fucked up as it all was, it was infernal and divine.

At last Nathan’s grip grew unbearable, wrenching his hair as he drove a hard, deep thrust in and held there, suspended and blinded with lust; Charles felt the second one excruciating and fat, and only then the hot spurt as Nathan gave a throaty growl, locked up against him and resting his head against Charles’ neck as a powerful shiver chased over his body.  It would take Nathan some time to recover.  _Fuck_ , that felt _so fucking good_ , a hot pump right into the core of another body when he’d been so starved, when he’d been so gloriously in control.  His chest and stomach heaving over Charles as he caught his breath, raspy and panting open-mouthed, and then slowly withdrew, Charles weirdly calm as he finally found his center again to relax and let Nathan dismount.

Freed, Charles let himself fall shoulder-first against the shower wall, leaning weakly against it as he watched Nathan stretch lazily before him – huge and muscled with his dick limping up now – and wash himself under the shower.  Still running, still wasting water.  Charles yearned to be clean of his sweat and the greasy feeling of his ass, the lukewarm drool of semen, god cum, down his inside thigh, but knew he’d have to wait his turn until Nathan was satisfied, stepped out and grabbed down Charles’ towel to dry himself with.  Charles stepped tentatively under the showerhead, careful of the deep ache that was starting to make itself known within him and watching Nathan out of the corner of his eye as the other man tousled his long black hair dank with the towel and then peered out from under it, feeling Charles’ gaze on him.

“Uhhh.  Thanks,” Nathan tried, unsure what he wanted.  Charles didn’t even look at him.

“Don’t mention it.”  The space grew between them, awkward and bruised.  “Seriously.”  And Charles pushed Nathan’s abandoned, soaked through clothes to the side of the shower with his foot.

“Yeah, uhhh.”  Something felt not right.  Like he was being scolded.  That wasn’t the way it was supposed to be, they’d both gotten off, right?  Like they’d both had fun?  So why was Charles being such a bitch about it, suddenly?

“Do you... wanna talk about it...?” hazarded Nathan, and Charles looked back at him with a pointed glare.

“No.  I don’t.  Get out of my shower.”

Nathan flinched back at the cutting glare, then resumed tying the towel around his waist.  “Jesus.  I’m sorry, or something.”

“Look.”  The manager turned around then, leaning against the open shower door as he fought the ache blooming inside him.  “This week's been stressful for all of us.  It’s been... ah.  It’s just been damn... bad, lately.  And I think we both, ah, worked out some tension there.  Some conflict.  But I don’t want to linger on it.”

He sniffed, turning his eyes down, away from Nathan’s confused gaze.  “It’s, ah, embarrassing and... and, ah.  Look, you’re fine by me, Nathan.  Just get out of my bathroom, okay.”

“Okay.  Fuck.  Whatever.”  As he closed the door on Charles, he thought he could hear his wet footsteps on the tiles behind him, and his voice faintly through the door, speaking through a device: _I’m fine, thanks.  Just put the hospital wing on standby and I’ll be down shortly.  And, ah.  Send down someone with a towel, I’ve... lost mine._

Such a weird fucking individual.  But there was a strange calm in Nathan as he padded back through the corridors, the drunken, post-cum buzz settling fuzzy and pleasant around him and silencing those depthless thoughts, until he found himself back in the living quarters.  Pickles and Skwisgaar were still glued to the television, now showing insects mating, and they gladly took the excuse to look away from the horror to Nathan as he entered, Pickles crooking an eyebrow at his undressed state.  But whatever, if the dude wanted to jack off in the shower, who could blame him?  Pickles wasn’t gonna be doing any jacking off now he’d seen spiders going at it.  Or at least, no normal jacking it.

“Guess what, Charles is gay,” grunted Nathan matter-of-factly, and Pickles rolled his eyes, looking back at the mating hornets.

“Right, whatever, dude.  Who gives a fuck?”

“Always suckspected he was,” remarked Skwisgaar with a shrug, and Nathan just gave a quiet grunt and left them to it.

**Author's Note:**

> i do so enjoy comments and cc.


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